


A Single Image

by shelleysprometheus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beautiful man. Brilliant mind. Best friend. Soul mate., Deep breath. Brave soldier. Loyal friend. Greatest love., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 05:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14730839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelleysprometheus/pseuds/shelleysprometheus
Summary: “A single single photo. How am I supposed to make sense of a whole case from a single photo?”





	A Single Image

“A single single photo. How am I supposed to make sense of a whole case from a single photo?” Sherlock rifles frantically through file after file on the kitchen table, tossing each one aside in disgust, all the while the offending photo stares back at him from it's position propped up against a tea stained cup.

“Calm down Sherlock, you've solved other cases with far less information.” John looks up from the files spread in his lap.

“Calm down? Calm down? Name one person you know that saying that to has had the desired effect?”

John moves to get up from his position in the armchair, spilling the files from his lap onto the floor as he does.

“Let me take a look.” John says patiently, though with every second he's beginning to feel increasing less and less.

He crosses the room to stand behind Sherlock, looking over his right shoulder. John can feel the anxiety radiating from his whole body.

John takes in the image. A hand. Holding a cigarette. The smoke emitted obscuring most of the details and the narrow depth of field, the rest.

Sherlock is still agitating in front of him when John draws in a breath and asks sharply.

“Where did you find this photo again?”

“Under the body, well, what was left of the body. Why?”

“Sherlock. That's you!” John reaches for the photo but Sherlock snatches it out from beneath his fingers before he can reach it. Turning it to the window and the light.

“What do you mean that's me?”

“Your hand. Your fingers. They're yours.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes I'm sure. How are you not sure? How do you not recognise a part of your own body?”

“Transport. Immaterial.”

“Well certainly not imaterial now, wouldn't you say, since its the only lead you have to go on in the case?”

Sherlock continues to study the photograph intently. “I don’t see it.”

“You don't see what?”

“I don't see how these are my hands.” His eyes dart back and forth between the photograph in his left hand and his right hand which he keeps turning back and forth.

“John is puzzled, it’s quite obvious to him.”

“Here, give me your hand”. John takes Sherlock’s hand and cradles it in his as he gently turns it over so the palm is facing up.

“See here.” (he gently rubs the pad of his thumb over a fading mark on the back of Sherlock's hand) “Here’s the scar from chemical burn in the lab last month” . Sherlock studies the mark under John’s finger.

“And there.” John's forefinger moves to the junction of Sherlock’s thumb. “There’s the puncture wound from the barbed wire fence behind the abattoir”.

Sherlock continues to stare fascinated at John’s fingers tracing the marks on his skin.

He looks up and searches John’s eyes, begging him for the answer.

“How did you know?”. He practically whispers. “How did you know it was me?”.

John looks down again to his hand on Sherlock’s. His fingers on his fingers.

Deep breath. Brave soldier. Loyal friend. Greatest love.

“I know you Sherlock. I know what every part of you looks like”. He takes both of Sherlock's hands in his and runs them up the palms of his hands and under his cuffs, pushing them up and aside. His thumbs sweep over Sherlock's forearms.

“Your fingers, your hands, your arms. I can tell it is you just from the way you feel.”

The breaths filling Sherlock's lungs feel like they are coming from the bottom of his soul. He allows his eyelids to close as John continues talking and touching.

Beautiful man. Brilliant mind. Best friend. Soul mate.

John’s thumbs stop drawing circles on Sherlocks arms and he leans in to rest his forehead on Sherlock's.

“Look at me Sherlock”.

Sherlock opens his eyes into John's heart.

“Slowly, OK?” John breathes in.

Sherlock breathes out and nods.

“And in the meantime”. John steadies him, leaning out. “Let's figure out why the bloody hell a photo of your beautiful hands was lying under a bloated corpse”.


End file.
